


The Twelve Swans

by LoxleyAndBagell



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: AU in which the Sack of Erebor happens sooner, But under less happier circumstances, Extremely unhappy circumstances, Fairy Tale Curses, Hobbits are such Mama Bears, M/M, Slow Burn, So does Azanulbizar, Sooner as in both are in Bilbo's lifetime, Still by the meddling of a wizard, The Six Swans AU, Thorin has to mime everything poor baby, Thorin meets Bilbo by accident, Yeesh but do Thorin and Bilbo get domestic, and Azog is a little more powerful than previously reckoned, and I mean that in the most terrifying sense possible, as slow as you can get in a handful of chapters, but hold nothing sacred, possible triggers to claustrophobic situations, these tags are not necessarily subject to change, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/LoxleyAndBagell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a way, but the price is too great-- Your Silence for our Speech, your Reclusion for our Return, and your coats of Earth for our coats of Air."</p><p>A Bagginshield AU based on the fairy tale "The Six Swans," collected by the Brothers Grimm, in which Bilbo meets and takes in a handsome and silent dwarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A storm was brewing the day they buried Belladonna Took-Baggins.

Her son, Bilbo, said not a word as her coffin was lowered down beside her husband, Bungo’s, plot. He had not said a word to any of the mourners when they had gathered. He had meant to, truly he had, it was only polite to greet your guests, and he had opened his mouth to the first ones to arrive, but no words rose to his lips. So, after a few failed attempts, he had settled for a polite smile and handshake in greeting. It wasn’t as if he had to say much anyway, he supposed; everyone only shook his hand as they said what they wanted and wandered off afterwards dabbing their eyes.

What could he say? Welcome, My Mother Is Dead? No, that was absurd. Bilbo was many things—practical, fussy to the point of being fatuous, and (now) quite wealthy, but absurd didn’t quite suit him.

He listened politely as the Words of Farewell were spoken, except by him of course. He should have gone first, but he was as mute as ever. His Aunts went first, then the rest of the guests. After saying their farewells, they trailed off to Supper, leaving Bilbo.

 _He should be alone_ , he heard them whisper. _A son should have the honor of sending off his mother in private._

But Bilbo still had no words. He stood before the grave, certain that something obvious should come to mind. A joke, a merry send-off; Belladonna Took always said she didn’t need much in this life, she had said it even at her deathbed; “I didn’t need so much in this life, but I got everything I dreamt of and more,” were her exact words. And with a kiss to his cheek, she had breathed a last “I love you,” and went off to sleep.

Really, how hard was that? It was as simple as three words, a simple little I Love…

I Love…

 _I love you_.

“I…”

He got that far before the rest of the vowel was perverted into a savage wail.

 

_6 years later_

 

Bilbo had gotten some queer looks when he marched off to the woods with his basket under his arm; the almanac had predicted a heavy storm that night, and already the air was heavy with coming rain, and the late-afternoon sky already dark as night.

He had waved cheerfully as he went, pushing aside worries of talk in the morning. It was true he had perhaps drunk a little too much wine, and would probably wonder at himself and his decisions in the morning, but hell, it was the anniversary of his mother’s death. He was already past courting years, and would likely die a bachelor. He hadn’t felt excited about anything in nearly seven years, and would probably stay that way.

(Granted, until he had drunk this wine, he hadn’t felt very disappointed about any of these things, either; but that was beside the point.)

Tonight, he had decided, he would be excited about fried mushrooms in cream sauce on dumplings (with this very excellent wine), thunderstorms be damned.

“Three things in this life are certain,” he giggled to himself, plucking up little capped stalks as he went. “Death, Disappointment, and Dollopheads by the creek.” Dollopheads were his favourite, closely followed by Icedrops and Bonnettipped.

He briefly cursed as his foot slipped into a hole. When he saw the smooth side and the gathered pile of dirt beside the hole, he smiled. “Ah, I see old Maggot was here earlier,” he mused. “Probably digging for those fancy undergrowing whatstheirnames with one of his pigs.

“I could have gone to his place, taken some of those beauties,” he sighed wistfully. “They’re wonderful in cream sauce. Ah well. He’d just bark at me to take along one of those pigs, or better yet, train one of my own. Bah, I don’t have the patience for animals.” He tapped the nose of the shaggy pony that was grazing next to him. “Not even a for sweet little thing like you.”

He went back to peacefully gathering before the realization that there was a shaggy pony grazing next to him interrupted him.

“Heavens!” he cried, stumbling backwards, spilling some mushrooms from his basket. He had seen Men on their horses when they came through Hobbiton and the occasional Dwarf on their pony, but he had always been standing and aware that a large animal was going to be in the vicinity for such encounters. He clapped a hand over his pounding heart, as if that could slow it to a more peaceful volume and tempo.

The pony gave him a peculiar sideways look, and then went back to grazing.

When Bilbo had regained some of his wits, he began to mutter more to himself than to the animal. “Well. Well, well, well. You must be a stranger in these parts.” He looked over the saddle and the reins, both made of a worn black leather, the tarnished silver details on the stirrups and buckles, and the faded blue, saddle blanket. All were a little worse for wear, that was true, but the embossed designs on the leather were still visible, and the intricate, geometric embroidery on the blanket was more ornate than anything he had seen in the Sackville-Baggins’ place. “Most certainly a stranger.”

He had seen such designs on the work of the itinerant dwarves that came to Bree once in a while, and similar ponies as well, but never had he seen a dwarf with such a fine tack set. Curiosity overwhelming his immediate fear, he muttered, “I wonder where your rider is.”

A metallic slide and the gentle press of a very sharp point against his back gave him his answer.

Automatically, his hands went up in surrender as he raised himself to his knees. He made no sound, waiting to hear his captor make a threat to keep himsilent, issue a demand, but he was met with silence. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to turn around, and it was all Bilbo could to keep steady.

He had to look up to see his captor. It was a dwarf glowering down at him, that much was obvious—too short to be a Man, too hairy to be a hobbit like himself; doom with wild black hair and the iciest eyes Bilbo had ever seen, all wrapped up in a fur-collared coat.

Bilbo hoped he was not drunk enough to babble his thoughts out loud.

The dwarf kept his dagger pointed at Bilbo, just above his sternum, and Bilbo had no trouble understanding that this fellow could filet him like a fish. Still holding his gaze, Bilbo’s captor knelt down gingerly, keeping the dagger aloft. Once his knee touched the earth, the piercing blue stare was lifted off of Bilbo, and went to the basket. With his free hand, the dwarf roughly pulled it to his side, eagerly reaching for the mushrooms that had fallen out of it in Bilbo’s earlier fear and putting them back in.

From this new angle, free from those eyes’ hold, Bilbo could get a better look at him. The broad hand that held the dagger was trembling, and the great coat seemed to hang loosely on the fellow’s frame. The black mane was tangled, streaked with silver at the temples, perhaps too much and too early.

There was a twist in his heart. What was a basket of mushrooms to him? He had known hunger before, that was true, but never powerful enough to drive him to robbery. This dwarf had likely never traveled here before, did not know what was healthful to eat, and saw a fellow with a basket of presumably edible mushrooms, and…

And…

Bilbo’s sympathy was replaced with indignant confusion. “For goodness sake,” he impulsively barked, “you couldn’t simply ask which varieties were good to eat?”

The dwarf halted his movements and gave him a sideways look, much like the pony had earlier, but with greater pronounced haughty annoyance.

There was a sheepish flush in his hollow cheeks, though, that gave Bilbo immense satisfaction.

The hobbit huffed; if the dwarf was too proud to admit his mistake, Bilbo might as well save him some future trouble. “Well, those are Dollopheads, and they’re very dangerous to eat unless you cook ‘em. I recommend frying with butter, personally. All of the mushrooms growing by this creek are good to eat, except the red- capped ones. Nothing you do to those will ever make them good; knock you out flat on your rear indefinitely unless you drink some milk.”

The dwarf did not move for a minute, holding himself still as a statue. Then he stood with the basket, sheathing the dagger. Bilbo was too shaky to stand on his own, so he unthinkingly grabbed the dwarf’s arm to haul himself up again. His head began to spin, so he clutched on a moment longer until he felt well again before releasing his hold. The dwarf was looking at him like a mother in her best lace dress looks at her muddy fauntling after the little one has hugged her.

He jerked his head in the direction of the path, a clear _piss off_.

Bilbo was too happy to oblige.

“Charming fellow, that,” he mumbled to himself as he wandered down the path, picking the little white Sweet Aberworth fungus that grew along the side. “Takes my favourite mushrooms without so much as a word. Not that there’s anything wrong with these, mind you. But for goodness sake! Nary a word! Well, I’ll bet his friends at the pub will find it all quite amusing, but I don’t!”

He was cut from his rambling by the sound of nearby thunder. It wouldn’t be long before the rain began, and that fool would be untying his pony and riding to the pub where the other dwarves drank, and…

“Oh dear,” Bilbo gasped. “Suppose he got lost riding in! He might not know where the pub is!”

He turned on his heel and went running down the path he had gone down and didn’t stop until he saw the dwarf pitching a tent right where he left him.

Bilbo had to stare for a moment.

“You’re. You’re pitching a tent.”

The dwarf flinched and turned to face him, eyes wide. _Oh, hell, you again?!_

It was so absurd Bilbo had to laugh. “There’s a storm coming, a huge one, and you’re pitching a bloody tent?”

He laughed until his sides burned unbearably, all the while enduring the dwarf’s stony glare. When he had calmed down enough, he managed to say, “well, you could try that, if you’re confidant and don’t mind sharing a tent with a pony.”

And just like that, an idea occurred to him. “Or, you could bring that basket of mushrooms you robbed off of me and come share supper with me.”

The dwarf stared, dumbfounded. Bilbo could hardly believe himself, yet he barreled on. “I’ve got more than enough room, you could spend the night if you wanted. I haven’t got a place for your pony, but we’ll stop by Cotton’s on the way; he’s a farmer, he’ll have a place to keep it until the storm blows over.

“You don’t have to do a thing you wouldn’t like,” he concluded. “But I can’t leave somebody lost in the woods in good conscience when there’s a storm coming. Especially if they think a tent will protect them.”

The dwarf held Bilbo’s stare evenly, and though he was the plumper one, the smartly-dressed one, the hobbit felt very meek and mild indeed under that gaze.

He exhaled a sigh of relief all the same when the dwarf turned to take down his tent.

“We won’t have any trouble convincing old Cotton to take your pony for the night,” he assured his new companion when they were finally making their way down the path again, the tent rolled up onto the pony’s back and Bilbo’s basket restored to his arms. “Goodness, if you’d glower at a king the way you did to me, you could have any number of favours you wished done!”

The dwarf did not smile or respond to the joke, and Bilbo suspected it would be a very long evening indeed.

He halted in his tracks as a small epiphany dawned upon him. The dwarf halted as well, looking about the trees and his hand upon his sword hilt.

“Goodness, we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” Bilbo exclaimed. Ignoring the way the dwarf’s shoulders slumped and his face twisted with irritated incredulity, he extended his hand. “Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. A pleasure.”

The dwarf stared at the hand as if he was none too sure of what to do with it. His brow still clouded with confusion, he finally took it and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it. Bilbo could feel himself going red as a sunset. Giggling with nerves, he managed, “a handshake would have sufficed, but if you must…”

The dwarf dropped the hand as if it was on fire, and Bilbo had to laugh (the alternative was running in circles like a headless chicken before fainting).

(Tipsy Bilbo was not the most graceful of Bilbos.)

“May I know yours?” he prompted, once he had collected himself sufficiently. The dwarf’s hand went to touch his throat after a moment, his face stony.

Bilbo nodded, understandingly. “Oof, nasty cold. That’s what you get for camping outside, days on end. Never fear, I’ve got this terrific tea…”

The dwarf blinked, disbelievingly. _Are you serious?_

Bilbo paused as his silent companion made a quick slicing motion over his throat with a finger.

“Well, if you hate tea that much,” he sighed, “the blend makes a good poultice to rub on your chest and…”

The dwarf clapped a hand over Bilbo’s mouth, silencing him. Holding him still with an icy glare, he held up his free hand.

He pointed to Bilbo with the free hand, nodding for emphasis. The hand proceeded to close into the beak shape Bilbo used to make when making shadow puppets. The “beak” proceeded to open and close quickly, like a mouth jabbering.

He nodded, _do you understand?_

Bilbo nodded in return, sighing and rolling his eyes. Here it came, another childish _shut up before I make you shut up_ speech.

Content, the dwarf’s free hand pointed to himself, still holding Bilbo’s gaze. The hand became a beak again, and then the hand shutting Bilbo’s mouth came to pinch it shut.

_Do you understand?_

Bilbo’s mind was still a touch fuzzy; it had seemed just like any other shut up speech, but the fellow pointing to himself made things difficult…

He had pointed to himself before shutting the beak… himself…

“Oh!” he exclaimed at last, and continued to babble as the dwarf’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, I beg your pardon! I should have guessed, I suppose, you never said a word all this time—“

He was cut off at the touch of a raindrop on his nose. The dwarf must have felt one as well, judging by the slowly-dawning panic in his eyes.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo muttered, looking up and taking in the dense darkness above them, feeling more drops on his face. “I suppose less talk, more running would be better?” The dwarf nodded emphatically before hopping up on the pony and hoisting up Bilbo to sit in front of him on the saddle, then kicking the pony into a gallop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a way, but the price is too great-- Your Silence for our Speech, your Reclusion for our Return, and your coats of Earth for our coats of Air."
> 
> An AU based on the fairy tale "The Six Swans," collected by the Brothers Grimm, in which Bilbo meets and takes in a handsome and silent dwarf.

Mrs. Dimple Cotton leant against the countertop, hand on her swollen belly.

 

“Heavens have mercy,” she muttered to the unborn bairn. “You’ll hit the ground running as soon as you’re out.”

 

Holman, her husband, had gone out to answer a knock on the door nearly twenty minutes ago, leaving her to put the rest of the dishes away.  She had heard him greet Mr. Baggins just as he shut the door.

 

He had still not come in.

 

“The first thing I’m teaching you,” she muttered to her stomach, “is how to hold a quick, productive conversation. It will save you and your spouse a lot of grief in the future.”

 

At long last, the door swung open. “What was that all about, dear?” Dimple asked her husband. “What did Mr. Baggins want?”

 

Her poor Holman was drenched to his skin and scowling dreadfully. “I had to run a pony to the shelter.”

 

Dimple pushed him to the fireplace, draping a blanket over his shoulders. “Mr. Baggins doesn’t own a pony.”

 

“No,” he grumbled, “but his guest does.”

 

“’Guest’?” She repeated, gingerly lowering herself to sit across from him.

 

Her husband leant in, speaking low and confidentially. “A great big dwarf, mute as the rock he came from. Mr. Baggins found him in the woods when he flounced out on a mushroom hunting trip, and the big fellow needed a place to keep his pony for the night. It’s looking like the dwarf will be staying in Bag End. Goodness knows why Mr. Baggins doesn’t fix him up at the Green Dragon.”

 

Dimple shifted herself in her chair. “Holman, you can’t mean you don’t know—oh bloody hell!” She cut herself off with a grimace of discomfort and slunk lower into the chair.

 

“Are you all right? Is it your back again?” Holman shrugged off his blanket and rose to go to his wife, eyes wide with fear. “It’s not the baby, is it?”

 

She waved him off. “It’s just the back, which will be sore until your spawn is out of me. That’s nothing new.”

 

He persisted, extending a hand out to her, his gaze firm. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Cotton. I’m new to this whole baby business. But I have picked up that it does a number on my beautiful wife, and I did vow to be good to her all my days.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been very good to me. That’s how you found yourself in this whole baby business that we’re both so new to.”

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he huffed, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I meant to offer you a bath, but if you’re just going to be mean…”

 

“Oh, Holman.”

 

He stopped his blustering and looked down at his wife. Dimple was smiling a little sheepishly, extending her own hand.

 

Giving her a smile of his own, he gently helped her up, kissing her brow. “Are you going to tell me what’s so very obvious, you cruel buzzard?”

 

She sighed. “My dear, it is six years to the day his mother died. Mr. Baggins always drinks a little too much on that particular anniversary.”

 

“Now why should that be so obvious?”

 

She shrugged. “It was one of the first things they taught me when I started at the Green Dragon.”

 

Her husband stifled a laugh as he shook his head. “A former barmaid can’t remember how much foam her husband likes on his beer, yet can remember something like that?”

 

She smiled sweetly. “Darling, you’re a big lad, and big lads can pour their own goddamn beer. They can also draw their aching pregnant wives a bath. Chop chop.”

 

 

 

 

“…and three!” Bag End’s green door finally swung open, and Bilbo and his guest gladly stumbled inside. Bilbo was still giggling from the adrenaline while simultaneously gasping for air as he shook the water from his hair and wiped his feet. Both he and the dwarf were completely drenched after their run through the rain, in spite of being partially sheltered under the dwarf’s fur-collared coat.

 

The rain had stuck the dwarf’s hair to his face, and he had to part it like a curtain to look about the hall appraisingly. Bilbo snorted a laugh at the sight, earning him a disparaging look.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he managed. “I’ll just get a fire started. Take off some of your wet things, hang them on the hooks behind you, and come down the hall to your right.”

 

He started down said hall, before recalling something quite important indeed. “And leave your boots by the door,” he added over his shoulder. “No need to be trailing mud, and I’ll bet they’re soaked as well.”

 

He left the dwarf then, wending down the hallway and kneeling before the dying fire. He fed it some more logs, stirred it about, listening to the clank of armor settling on his floor. He heard the dwarf coming down the hallway slowly, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

 

“Nothing is going to break under you,” he called lightly. “Those boards have held up the portliest of the Brandybucks; they’ll hold you too!”

 

He heard the dwarf come in as he continued to stoke the fire, coming to stand by Bilbo.  He decided not to interrupt his guest’s investigating with silly chatter, keeping his gaze focused on the fire, until he spied something out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Oh, thank you.” He took the glass of red wine from the dwarf, recognizing it as the half-emptied one he had left on the mantle before running out the door. In taking it from his guest’s hand, he got the full view—his feet were bare and the toes were just peeking out from under the long trouser hems, and the weskit was just as ill-fitting, several sizes too large for him in the shoulders. Both were clearly designed for a taller person than he. Still, there was no mistaking this fellow for a meek little waif—the hand that offered Bilbo the glass was broad and calloused, the arm thick and corded with muscle, his shoulders broader than any hobbits, and…

 

…and his hair braided back out of his face made his look of confused irritation all the more clear.

 

Bilbo hastily took the glass, looking away and feeling quite silly and guilty, polishing off the glass’ contents. Once he felt sufficiently self-collected, he heaved himself up off his knees to stand.  

 

“Can I pour you a glass?” he offered. His guest wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.

 

“Very well; I also have some white, if that’s more to your liking. Or a beer? Ale?”

 

The dwarf, for the briefest of moments, looked lost. Then he blinked, swiftly re-arranged his face to reflect only (now-familiar) aloof arrogance, and he made a motion as if writing on his hand.

 

“Oh, of course!” Bilbo exclaimed. “How stupid of me, I should have thought of that! Wait, I’ve got something in the study.”

 

After rummaging about amongst the papers and errant books, he found a red leather-bound journal, a charcoal pencil, and a small knife. When he returned, the dwarf’s eyebrows lifted appreciatively, and he wasted no time in scribbling away.

 

Bilbo felt his own eyebrows leap up in surprise when his guest handed him the journal back; he had _beautiful_ handwriting.

 

_Just water, please. Will you be needing help with supper? Also, where is your water closet?_

He took a moment more to appreciate the beautiful script before giving a response. “I can manage supper. You just warm up. Water closet’s down that corridor to your right, third door to the right hand side.”

 

He handed the journal back. “I’ll just get started, then; Kitchen’s down the hallway to the left in the room you just left, if you need anything.”

 

With that said, he scurried to the kitchen, still carrying his wine glass. Once in the safety of the kitchen, he re-filled his glass and quickly drained it. When had his hosting skills gone so rotten, he wondered? Just last week, he had managed a peaceable supper with the irritating Sackeville-Bagginses, complete with charming conversation, and here he was, behaving most deplorably in front of a perfect stranger. Goodness, what sort of host brazenly ogled their guest? Not a Baggins sort of host, that was who.

 

Determined to make amends, he started preparing dough for dumplings, dropping little spoonfuls of it into boiling water. Once the pot was covered, he peeked outside to catch a glimpse of the water pump.

 

All he saw through the darkness was a curtain of rain, concealing even the tree growing just outside the window.

 

“Bugger it all,” he muttered, taking down another glass and opening the window, letting the rain fill the cup.  After shutting the window, he took a sip; cold, perhaps not as palatable as Shire water, but still very refreshing. He dried the glass, then his arm.

 

As he stirred the cream sauce and sautéed the mushrooms, his mind raced a million miles a minute—where would the dwarf stay? Did he intend to spend winter in the Shire? Did he intend to stay in Bag End? Was there anywhere else in the Shire he could go? He must have come here for a reason; for a visit? For business? Dwarves seldom travelled alone, was he lost from his group? Preparing the way? Or had he been cast off? If so, whatever for? The dwarves that had come this way before did not seem the type to take dole out banishment easily, so if that was the case, what crime had he committed?

 

Dear heavens, had Bilbo let a murderer into his home?

 

Well, it served him right; if anybody eyed Bilbo like he had just done to that fellow, he’d be rather defensive, too.

 

Feeling his ears burn with shame, Bilbo reached for his glass, only to find it empty. He turned to the wine bottle, and it was gone as well. A soft _creak_ behind him caught his attention, and he yelped as the dwarf put the bottle on a high shelf.

 

“For goodness sake!” Bilbo cried. “Now I can’t reach it!”

 

The dwarf nodded. _Exactly._

 

“You can’t bully me in my own home!”

 

The dwarf put his hands on his hips and glowered.

 

“Oh my word—you are most certainly not my father, now give that bottle back! I’m having a bit of a stressful evening!”

 

The dwarf stepped to the side, sardonically gesturing to the shelf with a sweep of his arm.

 

Bilbo tried to scowl as fiercely as possible. “I’ll have you know I have cooked with wine in the past. I have even gone so far as to put it in the food. As you can see, I am still whole and hale, and… why on earth are you opening the window?”

 

The dwarf grabbed Bilbo’s arm, the one with the burning shirtsleeve, and held it out in the deluge.

 

Once it was doused, he pulled the arm back inside and looked down his nose at Bilbo, who was too stunned to do anything except stammer a stunned “Thank you.”

 

The dwarf’s mouth quirked at the corner and he shrugged his broad shoulders. The motion shifted the fabric of his weskit, making it slip over his shoulder low enough for him to hastily pull it back up. Bilbo found himself biting his lip to prevent a giggle escaping; the fellow had a nearly _maidenly_ flush to his cheek when he had made the adjustment.

 

Judging from the look he received, Bilbo’s attempt at subtlety was weak at best, and his observation was not entirely welcome.

 

Shit.

 

A crash of thunder from outside startled them, and Bilbo went to close the window. It was now black as pitch outside, and the rain was still pelting down heavily. He caught glimpses of his garden through flashes of lightening, soon followed by heavy rolls of thunder, at this point overlapping each other.

 

A great bolt of lightening pierced the sky, illuminating the world bright as day for but a heartbeat, but in that briefest of seconds, Bilbo caught a glimpse of at least a dozen flying figures soaring against the clouds.

 

“Well,” he muttered to himself in wonder. “What do you make of that?”

 

He was ready to shut and seal up the window, but a heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him aside. Bilbo stumbled before catching himself on the counter, feeling his blood boil.

 

“Now, that is a fine way to treat your host!” he grumbled, turning on the dwarf. But his guest’s attention was not on him—he had one hand braced on the counter, the other holding the window open, his head out in the deluge with eyes skyward.

 

Bilbo did not have long too puzzle at this behaviour before his guest pulled his head back in, hastily shutting the window. His eyes gleamed wildly as he patted himself down as if searching for something, before giving up and tossing his arms upwards.

 

He turned to Bilbo, miserable with frustration, helplessly holding out his broad hands.

 

Bilbo felt equally flummoxed. “Have you got your notebook?”

 

A shake of the head.

 

“Do you remember where you last had it?”

 

The dwarf swung one arm in the direction of the hallway with an exaggerated shrug.

 

“Right.” Bilbo nodded to himself, determined. He handed the dwarf his wooden spoon. “Leave it to me. Just stir the mushrooms about until they go soft, then take them off the heat. I should be back in time to take care of the sauce and whatnot. “ With that, he strode out with all the grace and authority a tipsy hobbit may posess.

 

He was in the middle of turning over the sitting room in his hunt when he heard the door creak open, soon followed by the sound of drumming rain and a cacophony of honks.

 

His back straightened. _Honks?_

He meant to slowly creep back to the kitchen, but no sooner had he reached the corridor than he screeched and threw his back against the wall, all the better to make room for the parade of enormous white swans.

 

The smallest of them stood exactly his height, the rest high above him. All of them were shaking their wings free of water, and Bilbo got quite a good dousing, but he did not notice until later, when they had all passed him.

 

He counted twelve of them-- First was a great big specimen with scars all along his head and a crooked neck, towering over the hobbit, marching alongside a smaller, plumper one whose gait was a bit slower with age.

 

Behind them were two young ones, still grey in their crowns and neck, honking the loudest of them all. Then came three birds marching abreast, the two bigger ones keeping the slightly smaller, greyer one between them. That one was no bigger than Bilbo; the one to its left had a few errant feathers tufting on its crown and strutted like an emperor, and the one to the right was a pristine snowy white and hissed loudly at Bilbo.

 

Afterwards came another pair, one honking absently to itself, gently nudged along by the other with a gentleness that betrayed its impossible broadness. They were followed by another trio—one enormously plump, one with a dreadful lump of metal sticking out of its brow and waddling none too steadily, both herded along by one that paused to peer directly into Bilbo’s eyes.

 

The creature had to lean down to get eye-level with the hobbit, and Bilbo couldn’t have run even if he wanted—that long beak was just touching his nose, he had no doubt that either of those wings were twice as long as he was high. One move, and it was either lose his nose, or a limb. Not daring to shut his eyes, he braced himself for the inevitable snap or crack, shuddering like a leaf in the wind.

 

 _“Ow-ow-wow!”_ bellowed the swan, and it was like a trumpet blast in his face. Afterwards, it stayed just where it was, tilting its head expectantly.

 

“Nope,” Bilbo heard himself squeak, before collapsing. 

 

He came back to himself soon enough, and all the swans were gone, thank goodness, and he was ready to write it all off as a wine vision and send himself off to bed, but…

 

…But there were white pieces of down on his floor, and there was the dwarf locking up the door, and the sound of the damnable honking was in the next room.

 

He looked startled to see Bilbo crammed against the corridor wall, and there was concern in his eyes for his cowering and newly drenched host.

 

Bilbo cleared his throat, managing a squeak; “friends of yours?”

 

The dwarf did not look too sure of how to respond to that, floundering with his hands for a moment before tucking them behind his back and nodding once, firmly.

 

Bilbo exhaled slowly.

 

Well.

 

It appeared he would not be spending this particular anniversary alone again this year.

 

“I’ve no idea what swans eat,” he confessed.

 

The dwarf looked oddly relieved at that, and, after helping Bilbo up, gestured with his head to the kitchen. Bilbo was too happy to follow.

 

 

 

It was not the strangest evening under Bag End’s roof (after hosting Gandalf the Grey, nothing is strange anymore), but the strangest that Bilbo could remember. The dwarf had managed to load up twelve of Belladonna’s teacups with dumplings and mushrooms in the sauce for the birds, and more appropriately sized portions on reasonably plates for himself and his host as they ate in front of the sitting room’s fire.

 

Bilbo’s initial shock wore off once he let the dwarf have control over the situation. It was easy to finish up the supper and follow along with taking out the china when his guest seemed to have such a controlled grasp over the situation, and such a calm demeanor around the massive birds making themselves at home in Bilbo’s sitting room. As a matter of fact, he seemed glad to have them there, and that gladness showed in spite of his best efforts in small secret smiles when his back was turned.

 

(Bilbo was woefully unprepared for such a display, but congratulated himself on acting like a true Baggins when confronted with the disconcerting—denying he ever saw anything.)

 

Bilbo was glad that the swans only hissed at him. He had heard dreadful stories of such birds biting off Men’s fingers, and entire hands from hobbits with as much ease. But maybe those were other types; this variety seemed pleased just to groom each other’s feathers and peck at their dumplings.

 

The two loud young ones took an especial liking to the dwarf, the greyest even going so far as to try sitting on his lap. After that fiasco had passed, he sat on the ground between them and they nibbled at his hair and pecked at his food.

 

The three that had come in last congregated about Bilbo, a little too close for his comfort. The one that had screeched at Bilbo divided its time between grooming the injured one and scolding the plump one for pecking at Bilbo’s plate.

 

Bilbo, unlike his guest, could not relax when the three began to nibble at his hair. When he squeaked out a request for “help,” the dwarf only grinned at his discomfort.

 

 _I really must learn his name,_ Bilbo thought. _Tomorrow, when this lot clears off, I’ll find the notebook and learn what I can._

 

Once he was convinced that the birds were not going to eat his hair off, he found it easy to relax to the gentle, rhythmic pressure on his scalp. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the wine (the dwarf had denied him any more access to the bottle and had kept him drinking nothing but water), but the beaks in his hair were beginning to feel like soothing fingers, gently combing.

 

From where he sat on the sofa, birds all around him, he could get a good view of Belladonna and Bungo’s portraits above the fire. He peered down at his guest, whose gaze was also fixed on the twin frames and their panted subjects.

 

“Those’re my parents,” he explained, surprised at how very tired he sounded. “She’s going to have been dead six years ago, after today. Outlived Dad. He’ll be fourteen years next month, about this time. I’ll be drunk that day, too. Like clockwork.

 

“D’you know,” he chuckled, “I’ve sat here in this very spot, this very day, for six years, looking at those portraits and missing them, missing _her_ , and this is the first time I’ve felt she was… well, present? Not just her, but Dad, too.”

 

He felt his heavy eyelids fall closed, still giggling. “And, by gum, they’re laughing at me. Well. Mum is. Dad’s trying to be strict, but he thinks this is ridiculous. I mean. I’m blanketed in _birds._ ”

 

With that, he settled back into his chair, lost in the crackling of his fireplace, the patter of rain, and the almost tender strokes in his hair. He was astonished when the dwarf softly shook him awake from a light doze, the floor clear of dishes and the swans off the furniture.

 

“I’m almost certain I did not mean to do that,” he yawned. “Please tell me you didn’t clear off the dishes? I’m the host, that’s my job.”

 

The dwarf rolled his eyes, helping Bilbo to his feet.

 

“Well, did you at least leave them stacked by the sink? I ought to at least wash them up.”

 

The dwarf turned him around so Bilbo’s back was to him and gave him a little nudge off.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m going to bed, nanny,” he chuckled drowsily. “Prowl around to find the guest rooms, they’re all open to you.”

 

With that, he stumbled off to his room, and got no farther from shrugging off his waistcoat before collapsing to his bed.

 

 

 

 

 

Bilbo had but one dream that night; that music wafted through his door, sweet and slow, but incomplete, somehow, like an apple tart without nutmeg. It was, in hindsight, the most beautiful dream he’d had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: Those of you who reviewed and left kudos and bookmarked and all that other nonsense, you're dreams. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> Secondly: There have been some changes in the tags. I'm sorry I took so long to update this, part of the reason was additional research, and I felt I needed to look up some more family trees. The character tags are very likely to change in the future. Among the changes are this generation of Cottons. This pair is going to have Tolman and his brother, who will grow up to be the father and uncle of the beautiful Rosie. There's not much on Holman and his wife, so I bullshat quite a bit. In this story, they are still a bit newly married, long enough to grouse at each other but still new enough to be anxious new parents. And by god, are they going to get anxious. I think Rosie takes strongly after Granny Dimple (it's a damn cute name, you can sit down right this instant), who worked at the Green Dragon before, and that connection helped get her job as a barmaid there, too. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. 
> 
> Thirdly: I've decided that the swans here are going to resemble Bewick's swans, which breed in Siberia but migrate to warmer climes, such as England. They stand at about 3'9", which, next to a 3'6" hobbit like Bilbo, is gargantuan. Their RSPB page is here:
> 
> http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/b/bewicksswan/index.aspx
> 
> And this is what they sound like:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoWMT7f5-tM
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, and kind words. Stay classy, and keep warm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a way, but the price is too great-- Your Silence for our Speech, your Reclusion for our Return, and your coats of Earth for our coats of Air."
> 
> A Bagginshield AU based on the fairy tale "The Six Swans," collected by the Brothers Grimm, in which Bilbo meets and takes in a handsome and silent dwarf.

The morning after the storm, what birds remained so late in the year sang their songs while the warm sun shone bright and golden into every nook and cranny, and the rain clung to the leaves and petals, shining like diamonds.

 

None of these woke Bilbo Baggins. His headache, however, was a different story.

 

He awoke with a groan, stuffing his head beneath his pillow, which only served to block the sun and muffle his tirade of expletives.

 

He knew this game, he played it every year. Sooner rather than later, his bladder would force him from his bed, headache be damned, and once he had vomited a lung out, he would put on the kettle. He would get dressed, get more water from the pump, then go about his day (but drinking more water than usual).

 

All went as he expected, until he got to the bit where he went to put on the kettle. The dwarf was already there in the kitchen, peering through the small chest of tea- leaves, his back to Bilbo. The kettle was sitting on the stove, steaming already.

 

“Good morning,” Bilbo managed to croak, pleasantly surprised at the sight.

 

The dwarf looked over his broad shoulder, and gave Bilbo a look that told him _exactly_ how long he’d been asleep.

 

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’re perfectly punctual after a night of substantial inebriation,” Bilbo groused defensively, sinking himself into a chair at his table, rubbing his temples.

 

He sighed after a moment. “Sorry. That was badly done. The black tea is in the second drawer down, two from the left.”

 

The dwarf said nothing, but offered Bilbo a smile, and set a glass of water in front of him.

 

Bilbo drank it down gratefully and watched the dwarf as he silently puttered about. He called out helpful instructions, his raspy voice growing stronger with practice.

 

“The mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the china.”

 

“No milk until later today; sugar is in that little white ceramic pot.”

 

“Tea strainer’s in the top shelf of that little chest with the rest of the teas. No. Not that thing. No, not that either, it’s like a—no, not that one. It’s like a tiny sieve with a wooden handle, and—yes. Yes, that’s the one.”

 

When the dwarf had finished preparing the tea, he let it sit to brew as he took Bilbo’s now-empty glass from him.

 

“Oh, thank you,” said Bilbo, startled at the additional kindness shown to him—as if the tea wasn’t enough! He sat expectantly, waiting for the mug of tea. It was certainly ready by now—he could close his eyes and smell it from where he sat.

 

There was a soft thud before him, and when he opened his eyes, there was the glass, refilled with water. He looked up to see the dwarf toasting him with the mug before taking a sip.

 

“You’re a monster,” Bilbo whimpered, willing all his anger at the betrayal to show on his face.

 

The dwarf only patted his head in passing, en route to the back door.

 

Bilbo pouted at the glass when the door clicked shut, willing it to transform to tea, or whiskey, or (better yet) a knife big enough to stab between stupidly broad shoulders. Still, he drank, and filled another glass from the pitcher. For all the dwarf’s sneakiness, he had been kind enough to go to the pump, and Bilbo supposed he ought to thank him for that. Bilbo had never liked that part of this little ritual of his—as accustomed as his neighbors were to his annual tomfoolery, it was impossible to avoid the embarrassment of seeing them in the morning.

 

As Bilbo looked around, now fully aware, he took in the neatly stacked china in its cabinet, the shining surface of his tabletop and stove, the disappearance of the white down that had carpeted his hallway, and the shut curtains that dulled the sunlight pouring into the room.

 

Perhaps, he acknowledged with no small amount of shame, he owed rather a substantial “thank you” to his guest, whose name he _still_ did not know.

 

He polished off the glass of water, poured himself another, and once he found his wide-brimmed hat, stepped out to the back garden.

 

He could see the dwarf sitting a ways off, beneath the walnut tree, surrounded by the swans. He had the charcoal pencil in his hand, scribbling into the red leather journal, lost last night.

 

What made it worse was the fact that it was a beautiful morning-- Bilbo expected to feel the nip of the air, but the storm had left a heady, heavy warmth in the air, and the sun’s brightness was not a result of his hung-over oversensitivity. He could see the glistening  raindrops clinging to grass and the remaining flowers in the garden, their scent all the stronger from the humidity.

 

Much to his surprise, his mother’s red rose bush had opened two new little buds over the course of the night; a little pair clustered together.

 

“The last of the year,” he chuckled to himself.  “The very last.”

 

He decided to cut them later and put them in a vase inside, after he had spoken business with the dwarf, who had not noticed Bilbo and was sharpening his pencil with a small knife beneath the shade of the walnut tree, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his feet bare in the day’s strange warmth amidst by the now-resting swans.

 

Now that the swans were (for the most part) all resting and not parading about Bilbo, the scene looked disgustingly picturesque. It gave Bilbo hope that he could just walk by them and they would not pay him any mind, and--

 

_“Ow-wow-wow!”_

_Shit._

Bilbo had no doubt it was the very same swan from last night who had honked so loudly in his face that heralded his approach so very enthusiastically. The rest of the birds soon followed suit, and the two youngest eagerly waddled to him at an alarming pace.

 

The dwarf, of course, looked up. The pencil was held between his teeth at this point, and he grinned around it upon seeing Bilbo’s hasty backwards retreat and waved him over.

 

“I, ah, did not think I was intruding,” Bilbo hastily apologized. “I’ll- oh dear- just come back later, when—“

 

But the dwarf’s smile never wavered, and the swans did not stop their advance. They soon were behind Bilbo and pushing him towards the dwarf, butting him with their heads. The other swans did not cease making noise and made way for the protesting hobbit, and the dwarf still grinned around his pencil, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter and his blue eyes bright with mirth.

 

The pushing did not stop until Bilbo was standing before the dwarf, then a heavy thump on his back knocked him down. He landed on his knees, straddling the dwarf’s legs, bracing his hands on the tree’s trunk on either side of the dwarf’s head.

 

The dwarf was no longer smiling. As a matter of fact, he looked about as startled at this new development as Bilbo, his eyes stunned wide open.

 

“Tipsy Bilbo” had left the premises hours ago; were he still about, he’d have unabashedly fixated right on those lovely, lovely eyes, but sober Bilbo was returned, and quickly (if clumsily) rolled off to sit beside the dwarf.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered.

 

The dwarf shrugged, very pointedly not looking at Bilbo, who was very actively not taking in the rosy glow blossoming atop those finely cut cheekbones, and sharp nose, and thick neck, and broad chest, and helix-cuffed ear…

 

Bilbo cleared his dry throat. “May I ask what you are working on?”

 

The dwarf nodded and handed him the journal, and the writing was just as beautiful as Bilbo remembered. He had to firmly remind himself to see the words and not the script this time.

_I couldn’t help but notice that your indoor plumbing is rather faulty,_ he read. _You’ve got a system to get water out, but nothing to bring water into the house._

“I’ve got a perfectly efficient water pump outside, as you’ve seen!” Bilbo snipped indignantly. The dwarf nodded indulgently, waving his hand for Bilbo to continue reading.

 

_An outdoor pump is well and good, but not as good as a sink. It’s like a pump, but more sophisticated, with a…_

Bilbo paused his reading. “I know very well what a sink is! My mother saw—“ he got no farther, his voice failing him. He huffed before speaking again. “I’m aware of what a sink is.”

 

He did not look for the reaction in the dwarf’s face; his attention went right back to the paper, casually skipping over the condescending explanation of The Sink, looking over the sketches with much interest. True, Belladonna had described sinks amongst the many marvels she had seen on her adventures, but Bilbo had never _seen_ one; Judging from these sketches, he surmised it functioned much like a water pump.

 

_You have been extremely hospitable, and honour forbids me to not repay you in some way in equal exchange for the favour you gave me. You say I’d have starved and died in the wilderness; I say you are missing out on the finest gift my people have bestowed upon all Civilization._

Bilbo sputtered, looking up. The dwarf was stroking the head of a nearby swan, the one with the crooked neck, hiding what Bilbo had no doubt was a cheeky smirk.

 

Bilbo found he was smiling, himself. “Humble, aren’t you.”

 

He looked over the sketches again. For all the dwarf’s boasts about Great Gifts to Civilization, he did not seem to have anything very grand in mind; it looked small enough to fit into the kitchen neatly, just a basin large enough to do the washing up in. Still, it was a bit… well, _much_ for a drunken act of charity.

 

Memories of installing Bag End’s water pump came to mind. Bilbo had not been born yet, but he could remember his parents’ tales of Installing the Pump. It was a subject of much dispute betwixt them; whenever one was displeased with the other, the pump came up. From what Bilbo could gather, it had been a stressful, expensive, and long-lasting endeavor.

 

Then again, they hadn’t had a dwarf.

 

But as tickled as Bilbo was at the notion, there were other things to be considered—What of money? Most importantly, what of time?

 

“I imagine you’ll want to stay in Hobbiton for the winter, then?” he asked. “Autumn is fast approaching, and installing plumbing is no small chore.”

 

He handed the notebook back to the dwarf when he held out his hand, and after a few moments of scribbling, he took it back again.

 

_Of course, to accomplish this, I shall need metal for pipes; enough to make it quite expensive. As you say, winter is fast approaching, unsuitable for outdoor work, so that time shall be devoted to earning my keep and raising the money. I am a rather accomplished blacksmith; is there a need for one here? If there is, I shall speak to the highest authority here to request permission to work. Who would that be?_

Bilbo pursed his lips. “Should I choose to accept, we shall discuss the subject of money later. First, there is the rather pressing matter of where you think you’ll be staying?”

 

He waited to have the notebook returned to him. He did not have to wait long.

 

_I can live in the smithy easily, but it should be near here for convenience’s sake, if nothing else._

Bilbo snorted. “This is going to evolve into my insisting you stay in Bag End, isn’t it?”

 

_Do you want me to stay in Bag End?_

 

Bilbo made no response, but held the dwarf’s gaze stonily, settling back, his arms folded over his belly, the same pose old Bungo had assumed when he wanted to be authoritative. 

 

He hoped it betrayed his anxiety.

 

Him? House a dwarf? A strange, mute dwarf, he had met on his annual Drinking Party For One? A strange, mute dwarf, with plans to eventually rip up his floor to install a device the Shire had never seen, all for the sake of repaying a bizarre act of drunken kindness that Bilbo was nearly certain he would regret?

 

Heavens knew it would be the most expensive favour Bilbo had ever done for anybody.

 

Honour be damned, he decided. The dwarf could repay him in some other way that didn’t involve his floorboard’s destruction or half the Shire glaring at Bilbo for introducing this intimidating stranger to their well-hidden corner of the world. He’d tell the dwarf that this idea of a favor was a little disproportionate, and if he really wanted to thank Bilbo, he’d allow his host to help him determine where to go next.

 

“Quite frankly, I think—“ he began to say, tilting his head to look at the dwarf before faltering. The fellow’s large, rough hand was currently engaged in delicately plucking twigs and leaves from the outstretched wing of the youngest of the swans, gently as if he were brushing a cloud. It looked like such an intimate moment, Bilbo felt like an intruder.

 

The dwarf tilted his own head to see Bilbo as he spoke, ceasing his work and dropping his hands to his lap. There was indifferent patience, that was clear, but something in the way he held his head, or in his brow, betrayed a breed of gentleness, like a glimpse of flesh through a broken mask. Bilbo cleared his throat before continuing.

 

“I think…”

 

Bilbo’s eyes went to those hands briefly. They were _certainly_ a smith’s hands, no doubt about that; he made old Gamgee’s look pristine. There was a tinker about, old Ponto Brown, but a _blacksmith…_

 

Now that he thought about it, a blacksmith might not be such a curse. Cotton and the other farmers might be glad of it; they certainly raised a fuss when a piece of equipment broke and whatever itinerant blacksmith had been around had moved on. Brown was good, but not much for heavy lifting.

 

While his gaze was fixed on those same hands, the left began to snap its fingers, and the right pointed upwards. Bilbo’s head shot up, and he felt his ears start to burn. The dwarf’s face was an unamused blank.

 

Bilbo panicked; he didn’t have the luxury of being drunk anymore to excuse this absurd behaviour of his. He would have to think quickly.

 

“Now, it’s not like that, I was looking at your hands,” he said, for it _was_ the truth.

 

The dwarf lifted an eyebrow, then nodded, urging him to continue.

 

Bilbo shrugged. “Well, from _here_ they look very much like Smith hands. I can be a little suspicious, can’t I?”

 

The dwarf paused at that, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Then, he thrust his hands at the hobbit, palms up. Bilbo flinched, but when he realized that they were being held forth for his inspection, he calmed, then bristled at the implications.

 

“Now, that’s not necessary, I’m not going to be sizing you up like a piece of livestock.” The dwarf exhaled sharply, crossly, through his nose as he pulled his hands back.

 

“As for the authority here,” Bilbo said, “You’ll want to deal with our Sheriffs about opening up a smithy. Petunia Danderfluff  will likely be very keen on the whole business; but considering you’re a stranger thinking of taking up an extended residence, it’s likely there’ll be a small Mote. I wouldn’t worry about that; the farmers are likely to vouch for you, so old Buckland will be sure to pass it.”

 

The dwarf scribbled something in his notebook; _Mote?_ it read.

 

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “You don’t have them? It’s… a sort of council, I suppose. If there’s a small problem, a problem between members of the same clan, they can deal with it themselves. Sometimes, if a third impartial party is needed, they call on the family Head, or the Shirrif, or the Thain. The Sheriff’s better for legal problems, in those cases. But once in a while, if a decision that effects our whole little village comes up, we call a Mote. An announcement is made, all parties who feel they ought to be concerned show up at the Party Field, and the Sheriffs leads a discussion and then everybody votes on the matter. When a decision is made, the Sheriffs make a decree, the results are sent along to the Master of Buckland, and he’ll more often than not go along with it.”

           

The dwarf handed him the notebook again; _So, to summarize: I make my case to the Scheriv, who will pass it to the other Scherivs, who will put me on trial before your village/mob. Does this Master of Buckland even do anything besides agree with the mob?_

Bilbo wasn’t sure whether to giggle or be offended. He tried the patient, calm tone reserved for his younger cousins as he corrected the spelling with the charcoal pencil. “Well, the Master is quite important, nobody will doubt his word, and—“

 

A quiet snort cut him off. Bilbo was astonished to see the dwarf fighting a smile, casting his eyes down and rubbing a hand over his beard in an attempt to look casual. It caught the poor Hobbit completely off-guard, and he heard a thoroughly unattractive guffaw come from his own mouth. The dwarf only snorted again and clamped the hand tightly over his mouth, broad shoulders shaking. Bilbo would have loved to defend himself, but he doubted he could be heard over the squawking of the birds, or his own laughter.

 

*** 

 

Bilbo briefly left his guest to set up a tea tray and write a brief missive inviting Petunia to afternoon tea tomorrow. If there was one thing a Hobbit cannot refuse, it is a free meal cooked by someone other than yourself, and Petunia was no exception.

 

While the kettle boiled, he located his pocketknife and his mother’s smallest glass vase, which he filled from the basin, filled with the well-water the dwarf had drawn while Bilbo was asleep. He poked out just long enough to snip the two roses from the bush, then rested them in the vase. When the tea was ready, he filled two mugs with water and set two strainers of black tea in them to steep.

 

There was a knock on the door just then, and he scurried to open it. Ponto Tighfield, the milkman, tipped his hat to him and handed him the jug of milk, and Bilbo gave him the missive to Petunia and a small wrapped bundle of mushrooms for the trouble.

 

When the tea was strong enough, Bilbo set up a small porcelain milk jug on the tray next to the tiny vase, shouldered the door open again, and carefully made his way back out to the garden.

 

The dwarf was not where Bilbo had left him. Rather, he was chasing the birds like a mother chases her fauntlings when they play ‘catch’ with an heirloom. It was, of course, the fault of the two youngest swans who were running about with the red notebook. Bilbo would have laughed if it were not for the distress on the dwarf’s face. He looked about for a place to set the tray down so he could join the chase, but as soon as his back was turned, there was a sound of falling, a rustle in the rose bushes, and a multitude of slow, slow ripping noises.

 

He looked up to see the birds had gone completely still, the two youngest awkwardly and painfully tangled up together on the ground, their long necks twisted ‘round each other’s like a braided loaf. But the swans were not staring at that strange knot, nor was the dwarf; rather, all looked on horrified at the red notebook, tangled in the rosebush, the pages still tearing on the thorns they had caught on.

 

The dwarf’s eyes were wide with shock and no small amount of fear. Bilbo had never thought anybody as big as that dwarf could ever look so small, so wretched. He was struck with an intense, burning ache to take those large, forge-mangled hands in his own, say _something_ , but…

 

…but he had embarrassed himself and his poor guest enough in the last few hours with the awful ogling, he would _not_ let his mouth add any contributions.

 

“Wait,” he said. Then he went back inside to find his gardening shears.

 

When he came back, the dwarf was elbow-deep in thorns, lips pursed with concentration and thin rivulets of blood trickling along his arms from the many cuts and scratches. Bilbo squawked like a mother hen at the sight, briskly shoving him away and cutting at the thorny branches himself to reach the book.

 

“For goodness’ sake,” he flustered. “I didn’t think you were so fond of _that_ book! I’ve got more notebooks than I need, none of them are red, but— oh no you don’t!”

 

He shoved the dwarf’s hands out from the thorny tangle again. Sternly, he brandished the shears, a mute command to the dwarf to stay put. He turned to reach into the opening he had cut so he could cut around the branches that snagged the pages, but the dwarf made to pull Bilbo’s arms out.

 

The Hobbit whirled on him, steeling himself to the fierceness on his guest’s face. “I’ve dealt with these thorns more times than I can count, you can…”

 

He didn’t get to finish his scolding. At the mention of “thorns,” the dwarf’s face went slack with astonishment, sky-blue eyes fixing onto Bilbo’s. Bilbo schooled his own surprise and cleared his throat, trying again.

 

“I… let me. Please.”

 

The dwarf slowly released Bilbo’s arm, one thick, rough finger after another loosening its hold. Startled, confused, and strangely warm, the Hobbit went back to work. Even with shaking hands, he was able to reach the notebook and pull it out successfully. Alas, he could not salvage the book if he tried; the pages were torn to shreds within it.

 

The dwarf looked lost as he handled the book, fingers shaking as the sliced pages fluttered in his fingers. There was a pang in Bilbo’s heart, a sharp understanding at that helplessness; his heart had known the same sickness his first night alone in Bag End, that dreadful winter so very long ago, and Bilbo had been certain that he would die all alone and screaming with nobody to hear him under the layers and layers of snow…

 

He did not know he had put his hand on top of the dwarf’s until it was too late.

 

“You… this is nothing, I promise, you’ll have another.”

 

The dwarf did not look offended or disgusted, surprisingly enough. He did not look consoled in the least, though. Swallowing, Bilbo fumblingly added, “I don’t mind. I’d rather go through a thousand notebooks a day than let you lose your words.”

 

There was no response from the dwarf. Shame souring his stomach, Bilbo made to pull his hand away, but before he could even flinch, the dwarf’s hand relaxed under it, his fingers stretching and the tips brushing Bilbo’s wrist. There was no fire to the touch, no expectations, only a quiet thanks.

 

Bilbo would have loved to have stayed in that moment forever, the warmth of the sun and the smells of the garden surrounding them, alone except for this fascinating, quiet, callous and calloused stranger, but a loud honk from one of the swans reminded him of the feathery audience around them.

 

He cleared his throat. “We should get those scratches on you cleaned up.”

 

As he and the dwarf heaved themselves up, Bilbo asked, “why did you look surprised when I mentioned thorns? A topic I should avoid?”

 

The dwarf, his eyes still cast downwards, only smiled privately to himself. Bilbo groaned. “Oh dear, I didn’t unwittingly say a curse in your language, did I?”

 

Grinning now, the dwarf shook his head. Bilbo fought a smile of his own with a bewildered sputter of, “well, _clearly_ I did something interesting and rather important. Will you tell me?”

 

Still smiling cheekily, the dwarf shook his head. It was so strange, the killing coldness and gentle warmth dwelling in one body; Bilbo wasn’t sure how he would get used to it. If it didn’t kill the dwarf, it would certainly do Bilbo in.

 

Bilbo quickly layered on the brisk resignation over his wonder, huffing “well, I suppose I’ll know when I know. But what’s more important is if I’m to be vouching for you, I ought to know your name.”

 

All traces of playfulness fled the dwarf’s face. “There it is again,” muttered Bilbo, forgetting himself. At the dwarf’s questioning lift of an eyebrow, he ducked to pick up the tea-tray he had set down, the better to hide his fluster, and said conversationally, “more things I’m to be left guessing about. I should like to know what to call you. Would you write it for me?”

 

The dwarf pursed his lips and looked about thoughtfully. His eyes alighted on the roses in their vase, and he smiled at Bilbo again, with that surprising warmth, as he brushed out a hand to them, running his finger along the stem.

 

“’Rose’?” Bilbo was a little taken aback, he wouldn’t have pegged the sword-wielding, bearded blacksmith as someone who would claim a flowery moniker.

 

The dwarf looked as astonished as Bilbo felt, and there was a round of honks from the swans, but after a moment’s consideration and a withering glare to his feathered companions, the dwarf smiled at Bilbo, his eyes chilled with a secret, and he nodded.

 

Bilbo felt a wave of embarrassment for the dwarf; it sounded as if the birds had been laughing at him. “Did you really mean Rose? I’m a bit slow on the uptake, did you mean something else, or—“

 

With a distinct firmness and obvious humor, the dwarf nodded. Still fingering the rose in the vase, he snorted wit humour again and plucked it from the vase, tucking it in his hair, smiling at Bilbo as if to say _why the hell not?_

 

Bilbo nodded as well, smiling at how well the rose suited his hair. “Well. Master Rose, my hands are a bit occupied with what is sure to be rather cold tea. If you would be so kind as to open the door for me, we can discuss this sink business more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I apologize if I kept anybody waiting, but there was a bit of research to be done on plumbing and Shire politics. 
> 
> Here is where I went:
> 
> http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Shire
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shire_(Middle-earth)
> 
> If I missed anything, please get a hold of me; I would love to hear from you if I fudged up. 
> 
> I've added trigger warnings to the tags, now that I'm bringing the Fell Winter in. It's likely there's going to be some flashbacks to claustrophobic situations, so please please bear that in mind, I couldn't bear to upset somebody like that. If there's anything additional I should add to the archive warnings, please let me know. 
> 
> I messed about a bit with the idea of Town Meetings led by Sheriffs. It's going to come up again in later chapters, and Thorin's adventure with the meeting is going to come up in the next installment. 
> 
> The "Mote" comes from the old English "folkmote," or "folk meeting." 
> 
> Thorin's alias. Um. Oh dear. It's going to be... a thing, I'm afraid. I was originally going to just stick with "Thorn," but Bilbo said a silly thing, and I got thinking, and... well, things escalated, and THEN I got stuck doing more research and plot-revisions, and the green grass grows all around and around, and... yes.
> 
> Next chapter will have supper with Petunia and the dreaded Mote.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is a way, but the price is too great-- Your Silence for our Speech, your Reclusion for our Return, and your coats of Earth for our coats of Air."
> 
> An AU based on the fairy tale "The Six Swans," collected by the Brothers Grimm, in which Bilbo meets and takes in a handsome and silent dwarf.

“It’s to be Master Rose, then, eh?”

 

The room Master Baggins had given to him had every comfort—a fireplace that now burned merrily with the dropped feathers from earlier that night, large round windows overlooking the garden they had spent most of today sitting in, both a large beech-wood wardrobe and chest, a four-poster bed piled with quilts and blankets, with even more warm woolen wonders in the chest. A knotted rug (he would have to learn the science of this art later) spanned the floor, blooming from under the bed.

 

It was a large room, but felt smaller with all thirteen of them within it.  Some were stretched out on the floor, quietly murmuring to one another; some carefully walked the perimeter of the room, muttering to themselves. There was a lovely armchair next to the fire, in which the oldest of them sat, stretching his feet out close to the warmth. It was beside this chair that the newly dubbed ‘Master Rose’ stood, rolling his eyes at the teasing tone of the question.

 

The chair’s elderly occupant chortled. “So close, yet so far. Probably for the best, though it would have been delightful to watch you mime out your name.”

 

‘Rose’ refused to dignify that with even a look in the chair’s direction, virtuously fixing his gaze at the fire as he puffed on his pipe, earning him another chuckle and a playful jostle to the ribs.

 

“As far as aliases go, I think it’s a fine one,” came a whispered defense behind him, from the youngest, from where he sat with his brother.

 

“I agree,” whispered the brother. “A mute Dwarf may raise some questions, but people will certainly recall the name first and foremost. It’s bound to be shrugged off as a Halfling bastardization of a proper name.”

 

There was a coughed out, “brown-nosers” from the corner, where the cougher’s long auburn hair was swiftly being twisted into a sturdier braid by his own two brothers. The others in the room, excepting the young two ‘brown-nosers’ in question, burst into smothered laughter, and ‘Rose’ grinned around his pipe stem.

 

“We _are_ sorry, though,” said the youngest (for the fifteenth time this evening).

 

‘Rose’ waved off the apology with a shrug (the first ten times, he had accepted the remorse, it was around the twelfth or thirteenth time that he had begun to let the hurt go, because for goodness’ sake, _it had just been a bloody book_ , and besides, a new one sat upon the bed with a charcoal pencil tucked between the pages). He knelt to tap out his pipe into the fire, going still when he heard the familiar rustling behind him and the familiar disappointment weighing in his heart. Once he had finished, he put on a resigned smile and turned to the twelve swans now occupying the room. 

 

 

 

 

“Now, when Petunia arrives, you’re to be just as you are,” said Bilbo as he fussed with the tea tray, re-arranging the position of the teacups for the umpteenth time. “When you refer to her, she’s to be called ‘Sheriff Danderfluff.’ She won’t like you at all if you call her anything else and need to be corrected.”

 

Rose nodded, opening the oven door. Bilbo had been agonising over what to prepare for afternoon tea; sweet or savoury? Sandwiches or pastries? It was difficult to tell with Petunia, whether or not a meal had left an impression, or if it was what she had expected, or wanted. Her response to Bilbo’s invitation had been a short, curtly written note, reading:

 

_Sure. Will arrive after shift. Thanks._

 

Vagueness always unsettled Bilbo.

 

Rose had found Bilbo’s distress over this meeting a great source of amusement, writing a cheeky little missive asking how Bilbo was surviving his presence in Bag End if a social visit from a Hobbit he’d known most of his life caused such anxiety in him.

 

“It’s different with Petunia,” Bilbo had protested. “She’s _authority,_ and all that; I can never tell what she’s thinking, where I stand with her. _You_ , however, wear your irritation with me on your sleeve.”

 

Rose had liked that, had bitten his lip even as he smiled. He often did that, or something similar, Bilbo had noticed, like he was stifling his laughter. It was a peculiar habit for one who claimed he could make no sound, Bilbo thought, but then again, he’d never known anybody who was mute before. Whatever the reason, Rose was clearly not against drawing out the joke, taking up the habit of rubbing his sleeve whenever Bilbo fussed too excessively with a mock-glower and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

 

(It was absolutely _not_ completely charming and disarming to see the years melt off his face when he smiled, no sir-ee.)

 

Rose had made the executive decision for pastries, taking down Belladonna’s pastry recipe book and closing his eyes tightly as he opened the book, only opening them to see what Chance dictated. Chance, as it so happened, was rather keen on the idea of pear scones today, a judgment that Bilbo could easily get behind. Now, nearly two hours later, the scones were done and Bilbo was wishing Chance would hurry Petunia along _here_ so his anxiety would hurry along _away_.

 

“Have you got your notebook?” he asked, now talking to occupy himself. “And the pencil? Would you rather have a pen? I didn’t think about the pencil blunting, or breaking, that was stupid; I know the quill and ink is a pain to carry about, but we won’t be moving about very much, and the nib won’t break off as easily—“

 

Without batting an eye, Rose laid down his knife next to the pencil and notebook where they lay on the counter beside his elbow.

 

“Right,” Bilbo exhaled. “Right. Sorry.” He had to laugh at how foolishly he was behaving, patting his own sleeve. Rose raised an eyebrow at the gesture, and Bilbo quickly attempted to amend himself: “Oh no, no, you’re not irritating me, I… that didn’t come out right, I meant… I’m just…”

 

There was a wicked gleam of amusement in Rose’s eyes as he surveyed Bilbo’s stammering, hiding his smile behind his hand under the pretense of stroking his beard. _There,_ Bilbo thought as he trailed off, _there he goes, he’s doing it again._

 

Any thoughts of bringing this up were cut off with a sharp nip to his backside. With a startled whoop, Bilbo whirled around to find himself eye-to-eye again with the swan he was mentally referring to as “Mutt,” given his fondness for honking directly in Bilbo’s face at every encounter.

 

_“Bow-wow-wow!”_

Case in point.

 

Once he had calmed himself, Bilbo glared up at the bird, scolding, “now, you had better not do that when the Sheriff gets here. She’ll cook you up and serve you with plum sauce, she will.”

 

The swan only leant over Bilbo to get at the scones, ceasing to a halt when Rose loudly snapped his fingers and, with a severity to put a schoolteacher to shame, pointed to the door. The bird, appropriately abashed, waddled out the backdoor to the garden.

 

Bilbo was impressed. “You _must_ teach me how to get them to listen to me like that.”

 

Rose gave him a sideways look: _It would be like teaching a fish how to walk on land._

There was a knock at the door; relieved, Bilbo asked Rose to make sure the backdoor was closed, and then went to answer the knock.

 

Petunia Danderfluff was not much older than Bilbo, but her face suggested otherwise. Bilbo fancied himself to have aged like a tomato still on the vine, the sun plumping him. Petunia, he fancied, good lady that she was, at some point must have fallen off of the vine and shriveled; her face had become weathered and wrinkled like a pair of well-loved leather boots, and her thick, curly dark hair had become bleached in spots. Her clothes fared no better—her trousers’ knees were stained dark, and her blue vest and jacket had faded to a colour at least two shades lighter than its original dye. Today, her sun-worn face was shielded with a felt hat with a floppy brim, wide enough to cast a nearly menacing shadow over her visage, making her dark eyes glow like embers and exaggerating the almost sharp line of her nose.

 

“Sheriff Danderfluff,” he greeted cordially as he knew she would allow. “Do come in.”

 

“Mister Baggins,” she greeted in turn with a polite nod, stepping in and dropping her now-empty bag next to the door and taking off her hat, turning to hang it. “Don’t mind if I…”

 

She cut herself off with surprise at the sight of the massive fur-lined coat hanging on a hook in the wall. Bilbo felt himself blanch with embarrassment; he had meant to introduce her to Rose slowly, ease her into the idea, begin their introduction to each other by _not_ over-emphasizing his foreign-ness. There was precious little more foreign to the Shire than fur lining, the preferred insulator being wool. He held no great illusions that the Shire was abuzz with rumours of a Dwarf following him home the night of the storm, but this was…

 

“How far East is he from?” Petunia asked as she hung up her hat on the hook beside the coat.

 

Bilbo sputtered. “Come again?”

 

“Sorry, I oughtn’t have assumed, should I have said ‘she’?”

 

“No! No, you’re quite right, he’s a… why did you ask if he…?”

 

She blinked, mildly confused. “Well, that’s Warg fur, innit? Wargs haven’t come out from the East for ages. You won’t find it anywhere else,” she clarified fumblingly, re-adjusting the pins that held her bun in place.

 

 “So, did your guest come from very far in the East?”

 

 _Oh._ “I… I couldn’t say, he… hasn’t said much about where he came from.” He quickly amended. “Of course, that’s probably because I haven’t had the good sense to _ask_ him, quite foolish, I know, but—“

 

She shrugged, cutting him off. “Haven’t known many Dwarves, but they’re private. Wouldn’t be your problem. Where’s he?”

 

He made a vague gesture to the dining room. As she walked in that direction, she stretched her shoulders, making a popping sound. “Your invitation came at just the _perfect_ day. There’s a fellow what’s got a new warg hat, and he was all excited to go east again and go hunting. He gets one straggler, _one_ , and thinks he’s the king of the West and the Misty Mountains. _Bah._ I’d like to see him up against a whole pack of the mangy little—ah.”

 

Rose had come out to get the scones on the table, and once he made eye contact with the Sheriff, self-consciously pulled up the shirt that was slipping off his shoulder.

 

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Sheriff Danderfluff, this is Master Rose. Master Rose, Sheriff Danderfluff.”

 

Petunia extended her hand. “Hullo.” Once again, Rose took the hand and lifted it to his lips and— _oh dear._

Bilbo felt his ears going red. He’d neglected to… discuss that little cultural note with Rose. Petunia’s eyebrows leapt up to her hairline in surprise, and oh, that was it, someone was going to get arrested before the end of the night—

 

But Petunia was not making any move to arrest anybody. Rose’s face was a carefully polite blank, as if he realized he had done something _off_ when Petunia did not speak right away.

 

After a moment, she finally said, slowly, “beg pardon. Haven’t been greeted like that in a while.”

 

She pulled her hand away carefully and cleared her throat, not in distaste, but with something akin to _delight_ in her eyes. “Rose. Unusual name. There are Dwarves in the Blue Mountains from out East, none of the ones that passed through had names like that.”

 

She looked at Rose, expectant. At a loss, he could only bring a hand to his throat, just as he had done initially to explain to Bilbo. Unlike Bilbo, the Sheriff caught on to the concept much more quickly, nodding her understanding.

 

“All right,” she said. “Where’m I sitting? Are you going to pull out my chair, too?”

 

 

 

Tea went as smoothly as Bilbo could expect, with a company of a jittery Gentlehobbit, a mute Dwarf, and a Sheriff. Petunia sat with her back to the kitchen, with Bilbo sitting across from her and Rose to his right. As they ate and drank, Bilbo asked Petunia about her day’s work, the events of the week, the gossip around the Shire, what news the Rangers had brought with them, etc. She didn’t have much to say about the day or have much in the way of gossip, but she had a thing or two to say about the rangers.

 

“They’ve always been around, and I don’t mind them for the most part,” she grumbled as she took another scone, “but the ones that have been coming ‘round here these days are under the impression that we’re a pack of children. One won’t stop bragging about his warg hat that made while hunting out East, and won’t tell you how far East it was. For all _we_ know, there could be a pack of the beasts traipsing about as near as Rivendell.”

 

Bilbo didn’t realize his hold on the teacup had become so tight his knuckles were going white until Rose’s foot nudged his under the table and he looked to see the Dwarf’s gaze set on him, concerned and curious.

 

“Mister Baggins?” the Sheriff asked carefully.

 

Settling himself, he first offered a small smile to Rose, and then turned to the Sheriff. “Beg pardon. I had not heard of these rumours. How likely do you and the other Sheriffs think a nearby Warg pack could be?”

 

She shrugged. “The others’re content to believe that the Warg old Beotlic shot was a weakling that got separated from the rest of the pack, and that it all happened far away enough for comfort. I have trouble being so optimistic.”

 

Bilbo nudged Rose’s foot under the table eagerly; _show time._ “Sheriff,” he began coolly, “do you think we ought to start having weapons ready?”

 

She snorted. “The Shire’s full of weapons, if only everyone could pull their heads out of their…” she cut herself off, then cleared her throat and spoke again. “There’s not a farmer in the Shire who’s willing to look at their tools and see a weapon. And the tools that they have are hardly in good repair. That’s the price you pay when there’s only the one tinker around.”

 

Rose was better at keeping a calm face than Bilbo, but his fingers drummed on the tabletop in a way that assured Bilbo that neither of them were as serene as they were desperately trying to be.

 

“What a lucky thing!” smiled Bilbo. “Did you know that Master Rose here is a smith?”

 

The Sheriff put down her teacup slowly, raising an eyebrow. “That _is_ lucky. Master Rose, have you got a resume?”

 

Bilbo felt the giddy excitement shatter. _Shit._ He had forgotten to anticipate this. But Rose, it seemed, had no such worries. He nodded once, then pushed himself out of his chair, walked around the table, and made his way through the corridor to where his room was.

 

“So there’s some substance to the rumours,” mused Danderfluff once Rose was out of earshot.

 

“Rumours?” Bilbo parroted, confused.

 

“Aye,” she nodded. “Rumours. That there’s a big old dwarf taking residence in the Baggins place, that he’s a grim old thing with a fur coat, _and_ that he’s mute.”

 

Bilbo ducked his chin to hide his nervous swallow, covering with a smile. “I do hope that that’s _all_ they say.”

 

She shrugged. “There are plenty more. Those are just the ones I’ve seen evidence for.”

 

Bilbo laughed nervously. “And, ah, what else is being said?”

 

The Sheriff rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, they aren’t saying a damn thing against you. In fact, they’re a bit worried for your safety. They think that your Master Rose has invaded your home.”

 

She gave him a knowing look. “That’s not the case, is it.”

 

Bilbo sputtered. “It… it’s not like… whatever you’re thinking. Yes, I invited him here, because he was lost, and because he needed a place to stay. He knows he’s allowed to leave whenever he wants, but for whatever reason, he elects to be here, and is _hoping_ to do business in the Shire.”

 

The Sheriff’s expression did not change as Bilbo rambled on. “Besides, it’s not as if it’s any hardship having him here. And he’s quite good company. He’s…”

 

Bilbo coughed, forcing himself to stop and clear his head. “Grim he may be, but I think he’ll get on very well with the other residents of Hobbiton. He’s patient, and meticulous, and…”

 

He trailed off in worry when he heard the back door creak. He could make out, over the Sheriff’s head, in the kitchen, the long white neck and mischievous gaze of Mutt, snooping around the kitchen, then look directly at him.

 

“Mister Baggins?” The Sheriff urged, oblivious to the creature behind her.

 

“Er. Well,” Bilbo stammered. “He’s. I think he’ll get on fine here. He’s never behaved in a manner that could so much be construed as disrespectable, or…” _no, no, bad Mutt, stay in the kitchen, don’t you dare_ “…or unprofessional…” _if you honk I will have your guts for garters I swear I will_ “…and if he’s got some secrets I doubt they’ll disturb his work…” _no no no don’t you even think about sneaking up on the Sheriff she’ll have_ my _guts for garters_ “…n-not that they’d be very dangerous or truly mean harm…” _you can just stop right there you stupid—oh shit shit shit_ “…Sheriff, I’d advise you to stand quickly, please.”

 

She frowned. “Why should I—OH!”

 

She stood as if electrocuted, hands going to her backside and eyes wide with shock. She whirled on Mutt, hand going for her Billy club. At the sight of the gleefully barking swan, she shrieked bloody murder and jolted backwards.

 

“Baggins, run! I’ve seen what these things can do!”

 

“Sheriff, please,” Bilbo begged, holding his hands up in an attempt to placate her. “That’s all the harm he does, he’s a right idiot, they don’t all—“

 

 _“’They’?”_ she parroted, terrified. “How many _are_ there?!”

 

 _Shit._ Bilbo stumbled over his words as the Sheriff held Mutt at arm’s distance, wielding her club, her eyes wide and teeth bared. The bird looked truly abashed, for what it was worth; there was something in the line of its neck that the height it held its head that spoke of astonishment, regret, and no small degree of fear.

 

Thankfully, Rose returned just then, holding his knapsack in his arms and wearing his belt with all his weapons strapped on. He must have heard the commotion, for he moved swiftly with an angry light in his eye. He slammed the bag on the table, and Bilbo was afraid for just a moment that he would draw a weapon at Mutt. Instead, much to his surprise, the Dwarf strode right between the Sheriff and Mutt, and grabbed the bird’s beak and sharply tugged it down to eye level. He glared daggers right into Mutt’s eyes for a painfully long moment before the bird made a sound not unlike a whimper. Then, as soon as it was released, the swan waddled to the backdoor, quickly as though his tail were on fire.

 

Without waiting for a word or an apology, the Sheriff, dumbstruck, followed Mutt’s escape route. Bilbo, panicking, began to follow her, but Rose’s hand on his arm stopped him. The Sheriff mutely stopped just in front of the open backdoor, staring in wonder at the garden. Rose released Bilbo, and the pair of them slowly moved to stand behind her, Bilbo bracing himself and Rose scribbling away in his book.

 

It was a sight Bilbo was used to now, but could understand the Sheriff’s wonder in seeing—the garden was swimming with swans, preening or sleeping, batting and chasing each other, cackling at the retreating Mutt in laughter or scolding, dropping the occasional downy feather like snow and gleaming like clouds on a sunny day.

 

She stood as still as stone, barely flinching when Rose offered her the book when he had finished writing. She tore her gaze away from the feathery menagerie to look over the words, words that Bilbo did not bother snooping over her shoulder to read.

 

When she had finished reading, the Sheriff slowly turned to return the book, face ashen. Setting her jaw grimly, she herded Bilbo and the Dwarf farther back into the kitchen.

 

“Master Rose,” she said at last, her hushed voice rough, “I can understand that they would be important to you, but this is something I don’t know if the others here can understand.

 

“I’m sure you’re aware of this, that Mister Baggins has explained this, but swans are not beloved of Hobbits. Even if they listen to you, even if they are as gentle as you assure me, they will still be feared, and no matter how skilled you may be, you will not be trusted. By anybody. Birds like this, that can kill deer, that can break Men’s bones, you can easily imagine what harm they could do to folk like us.

 

“If you’re hoping to work here, take up an extended residence, do you understand that there will have to be a meeting, Master Rose? Has Mister Baggins explained the Mote to you?” She waited for his nod before continuing.

 

“At the Mote, someone will have to defend you, and respected as Mister Baggins is, you will need official and legal backing. And I don’t know how many are going to be willing to defend you when they see your company back there. It won’t matter how good a smith you are, that’s going to be your fly in the ointment.”

 

Rose set his jaw at that, eyes steely and challenging. He briskly turned on his heel, gathered up the bag he had deposited there, and carried it back to the kitchen, setting it down on the table with an audible _thud._

 

First, he laid out his belt on the table. Making sure he had the Sheriff’s attention, he unsheathed every dagger, every hunting knife, from their scabbards, finally drawing forth his own sword and resting it beside the smaller blades upon the table top. They were all beautiful pieces, Bilbo could tell that much, with intricate, geometric designs on the handles and blades. Sheriff Danderfluff held each weapon appraisingly, testing the balance and weight and running her calloused fingertips along the edges of the blade.

 

She looked up at Rose while he dug about in his bag. “You did the handles, as well? All the engraving is your own work?”

 

Exhaling a soft huff, more perplexed than insulted, Rose nodded. Petunia let out a low whistle of appreciation, looking upon the pieces with new respect.

 

Bilbo felt a glow warming in his chest. He needn’t have worried about Rose’s resume; if anybody doubted him because of his silence, this collection did as good as speak for him.

 

And _what_ volumes it spoke; Petunia looked as pleased as pears with the weight and sturdiness of the pieces, and Bilbo could see the care and meticulous attention that went into the craftsmanship, down to the minutest of engraved knots. Hardiness and love of the craft, both qualities guaranteed to endear Rose and his work to the citizens of Hobbiton.

 

Bilbo looked up to Rose to smile jubilantly, _we’ve as good as done it,_ but the Dwarf’s attention was with his bag’s contents. When he gravely removed the contents and set them gingerly down on the counter, one after another, Bilbo felt his jaw drop with astonishment.

 

Chain mail. What appeared to be, once Bilbo had gathered enough presence of mind to be observant, thick necklaces, almost shirt collars. Beautiful things, they were, of the tiniest gold rings Bilbo had ever seen, worked together into a gleaming, buttery-coloured mesh.

 

He looked to Rose again in surprise, wondering if it would be too late to plead for giving him a position in jewel-smithing, too. But the Dwarf’s gaze was fixed on the Sheriff, smiling in smug victory. Indeed, the Sheriff was as gobsmacked as Bilbo, her weathered, leathery fingers gently tracing over the links in silent wonder.

 

Finally, she looked up at Rose, clearing her throat. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, if I was you, I’d go and see the tailor.”

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry if anybody was waiting, there was a bit of a Holiday Challenge that I mucked up quite royally, and classes, and all sorts of nonsense.  
> I thought I could get to the Mote in this chapter, but then I realized that there would have to be quite a bit of work to do, with visits to the tailor, and socializing with the neighbors, and all that fun stuff, so even MORE editing and plot revision was made, and I hope nobody is too terribly cross with me.  
> Sheriff Danderfluff is an Original Character. Tags have been edited to accommodate her.

**Author's Note:**

> The Seven Swans is high on my list of favourite fairy tales, and I had always wanted an excuse to make a fic with elements from it, but inspiration didn't quite find me.  
> After reading many fics with hobbit children and their scary-protective mothers kicking ass, I sat myself down and wondered what would happen if they got the opportunity to carry out some of those threats.  
> And Mr. Armitage's wonderfully expressive face got to me. I mean, my god, drop the fellow in a silent film, somebody.  
> The mushrooms named are fictional. Tolkien, as far as I know, makes no mention of which breeds of mushrooms are commonly found in Middle Earth, so I created some. If I missed any information, feel free to let me know.


End file.
